by Chris Lynch
“What?”
“What yourself, Ma. Leave me alone, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse yourself,” I say. “Barging in like that.”
“Barging? Do you have any idea how much noise you’re making?”
She has entered my room unannounced because she’s heard me hammering away boxing. I am sweaty and wearing my padded training gloves as I stand in front of her.
“I’ll punch quieter. I’m just trying any way I can to keep in shape.”
“Uh-huh. Like a man does, you mean?”
Ah, hell. I must have been talking out loud. Just shut up and punch, Arlo. That’s the key to everything from now on, just shut up and punch.
“Sorry, Ma. I promise I’ll be quieter.”
“Fine, but if you just want to get in shape—by the way, what is this I’m looking at right now, out of shape?” She is gesturing at me with that up-and-down hand gesture, like a model at an auto show calling attention to a shiny new car.
For the record, I’m six foot two, two hundred and twenty pounds, waist thirty, chest forty, inseam thirty-five. For the record. It’s okay shape. Could be better, though. I’d like it to be better.
“If you just want to get in shape,” she continues, “what is he doing here?”
He is my training partner, a Slam Man, Brutus, the bottom-heavy, man-shaped, molded-plastic opponent who takes punches forever and never asks questions. In a less complicated world, a Slam Man wouldn’t necessarily get Ma’s hackles up this high. But ever since I rescued him from McAlpine’s scrap heap, Ma’s been on edge a little.
Lloyd came home from the gym one day and told me Jamie was going to be putting this thing out for the weekly trash pickup and Lloyd thought maybe it’d be of interest to me. A little beat-up, he said, but good exercise, didn’t take much room, and I could pound the daylights out of him without him ever hitting me back. So naturally I went down to see.
“He is a piece of exercise equipment. Like my bike.”
“Like your bike? Does your bike get to live in the house? Have I heard you talking, in depth, to your bike like you have to him? Does your bike have a name for the love of—?”
“Bike’s name is Raleigh,” I say, jabbing her in the ribs.
She slaps my glove. “You didn’t give it that name, unlike this brute.”
I didn’t name him Brutus. He revealed his identity to me, once I had earned his trust and respect. I considered sharing this information with Ma, but couldn’t see it helping the situation a whole lot.
“If I ride him around the neighborhood, will you relax some?”
She sighs. This is almost good. Like with any quicker and more technically skilled adversary, wearing her down is usually my only hope. “McAlpine’s, though?” she says.
Thing is, when I found Brutus, I also found McAlpine’s. As soon as I pushed through the heavy, groaning metal door, I was hooked. So weathered even the walls seemed rusty, and aromatic as onions, the building had more real atmosphere than fifty Rocky movies could ever manage. It was not part of any school system, which could tell me what to do with my own head, and it had the most incredible sound going on, that spoke to me like the guys had been waiting for me here forever. There were maybe sixteen of them in the whole place, but it might as well have been three basketball teams dribbling and driving and jamming, and the whole rhythm section of a marching band wedged into the grungy, echoey, sweaty, bloody concrete box of a joint. How did they get the rhythm so right, so that it was driven straight into a guy’s own heart the minute he stepped inside? The sound and the scent and the thrump of this place were absolutely it. You could not draw a breath in McAlpine’s Gym and not sense everything you needed contained within it. At least I couldn’t.
“Hey, it’s been all great for Lloyd,” I say. “You said so yourself.”
“There’s a difference,” she says, a glance at Lloyd’s open door. “He’s working to get better.”
“What do you mean by that?” I snap. “What, that I’m going some other way? That I’m going downhill into something anything at all like what he did to himself? No comparison, Ma, none. If he gets himself straight and you want to be proud about it, then that’s great, but don’t pull me down just to pull him up, okay?”
Dad ambles in, making this an almost unheard-of family meeting in my room. This does not fill me with hope.
“What am I missing?” he says, as if there were any mystery.
“Our son is training for fighting now,” Ma says caustically. It doesn’t sound good and doesn’t sound right coming out of her.
“I’m not training to fight, I’m just training to train. It’s the best training there is, millions of people do it now, even old ladies and everything with boxercise or whatever they call it. It’s really, really common, what I’m doing, so just don’t sweat it, all right?”
“Boxercise,” Dad says so flatly I can’t tell if he’s teasing or believing.
“I can take care of myself, guys, honestly. I’m fine. And I will be fine.”
She’s not buying a bit of it. I’ve upset her now truly, and she’s laying another one of her devastating looks on me. The one that makes me feel sorry or angry for whatever chump she’s looking at like that. Who is he anyway, this chump?
I know who it used to be. Used to be the chump right down the hall from me. The thought of her looking at me now like that . . .
I will myself to stay calm, blink slowly, but this whole thing must be raising my blood pressure or something, because I’m suddenly getting a little woozy. Not sure if she could appreciate it or not, the fact that her intensity probably rocks me more than any supposed head shots. Don’t think I’ll ask her right now, though.
I am still standing, my weight shifting from foot to foot, trying to match the internal swaying motion. I shake my head slightly, checking, the way I do, the way I didn’t used to do, like a dog shakes his head coming out of the water but not like that, either. This dog is not in the water, the water is in the dog. I can actually feel it. Somewhere in there I find a kind of comfort, my consciousness of what is not right meaning I must be all right at the core. “If it’s done so much good for Lloyd,” I say, “it’ll do twice as much for me.”
I can feel the fluid surrounding my brain, separating my brain from the inner wall of my skull. I can feel that fluid buffer failing a little as I shake my head slightly and sense the movement of the gray vital meat, feel it bash into its walls like a mental patient trying to break out of his cell. But I’m aware, so I’m good.
“The difference,” Ma says again, “is that Lloyd accepts now that it’s all over regarding fighting and contact sports and that whole nonsense part of life.”
“And,” Dad adds, “that whether he accepted it or not, there is nothing much he could do about it.”
There is always something you can do about it. I have learned this, even if Lloyd didn’t.
I push past my parents. I don’t say good-bye.
Contact
I like contact. I’ll make no apologies for that. I love it, in fact. That’s what we do it for. Nothing compares. Nothing. Nothing fills, thrills, moves, removes, satisfies, rewards, revives, relieves . . . hell. Anyway. Nothing. I’m not the guy to describe it, maybe. But I am the guy to carry it out.
It’s just that the price of contact is contact. I am more than happy to pay it. More than.
I don’t mind getting punched and kicked in the head. No bragging, just true. Does that count as some sort of abnormality? I don’t think so.
You show me a guy who has no fear of getting his bell rung, and I’ll show you a dangerous guy.
I like to think of myself as a dangerous guy. You don’t have to be a bad guy to be a dangerous one.
And you don’t have to be a bad guy to be a fighter. I am a fighter. I know this because I have to fight. Because I can’t not fight. I know what the stakes are, and that the stakes are fairly high.
But I am willing, that�
�s the thing. I’m the one taking the shots, so I should be the one calling the shots.
I have bided my time at McAlpine’s. I work out on the weights, on the speed and heavy bags most mornings before school, most afternoons after school. When Lloyd is in the place and not doing flunky work, we take turns punching the daylights out of the big hand pads that we wear for each other to wail on. It feels really good, like the days he was training for the army, and we’re both in good shape for it.
I was born to do this.
Coach
Mr. Fisk and I don’t talk about much these days beyond Twentieth-Century American History. He’s my teacher for the subject, and I really almost enjoy the class because of him and his robust way of conveying his personal enthusiasms. From the first week of school, he made it clear that football was behind me now, so there was no stress between us.
Until now.
“You are failing, by a comfortable margin,” he says after class.
This is news. Ish.
“Sorry, sir,” which I calculate as being the correct response. I’m so disconnected from the magic footprints that get a guy out through the other end of high school, it’s kind of guesswork at this point. Academics has been collateral damage to my so-called sports retirement this year.
“You’re not stupid, Mr. Brodie,” he says to me now.
“Thank you, Mr. Fisk.”
“I know of no reason for you to be failing. Are you not concerned?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, probably not as concerned as I should be.”
“Are you aware that you have to pass this class to graduate?”
“Wwwhat?”
“Arlo, I’m going to make a wild guess that means you were not cognizant of this fact.”
“But, I’ve passed all the other—”
“This is not an elective, Arlo. This is core. No pass, no graduation. Until after summer school, of course.”
“Summer . . . Jeezuz H.—”
“Hey,” he snaps.
“Sorry, sir. But, you just have no idea what all else I’ve—”
“Right. I have no idea. Sure.”
I realize. I know better than this.
Up go the hands in surrender. “Of course, you have every idea, Mr. Fisk. I didn’t mean that.”
He snorts a laugh. “Heh, of course you mean it. All you young bucks mean it when you tell me, in one way or another, that I simply don’t understand. Even the kids who love me—which means the kids with any discernible brain wave—usually get around to pointing out the inherent cluelessness that comes with my job. They mean it, temporarily, then they get over themselves, then they listen to about half of what I have to say, which is an acceptable success rate as far as I’m concerned.”
He’s going too fast.
“Right,” he says, more deliberately, when it’s clear I have nothing to say. “When did you quit?”
“Huh?”
“On the academics. Come on, Arlo, I’m pretty sure you were a decent student at some point, and even without trying you’re fairly bright in class. At what point did you punch out?”
“End of first term, sophomore year.” I didn’t even have to dig for that.
“Well,” he says, clapping once and leaning way back in his chair, “that was quick and specific.”
It was, wasn’t it. Huh.
We smile at each other, sweetly and kind of stupidly, for a few seconds over this.
Extra stupid on my part, because I am feeling almost overcome. With good stuff, warmth, appreciation. Jesus, over nothing. I could just about slap myself.
His smile vanishes and he holds out his hand to me like a bully demanding lunch money.
“My hat,” he says.
“Your what?”
“My hat. What did you do with my hat? My Dolphins hat? I want it back now.”
Pass Twentieth-Century American History? I can’t even pass the conversation.
“I forgot all about it.”
“There is no statute of limitations on betrayals of kindness or stealing hats.”
“I’ll look for it.” I have no idea where it is. “Or I’ll buy you another one.”
“No. The original.”
“Okay.” I hope I remember to look.
“What are we going to do about your history grade then, Arlo?”
It takes me a second to register the sudden change in topic again. “I don’t know. Try harder?”
He laughs. He laughs so barky and infectious that I can’t help but join in.
“Ah, you kids,” he says when he’s composed himself.
“Well, I have a couple of months to—”
“Weeks.”
What?
“Months are gone, son, leaving us with weeks. And if you fail, it’s automatic summer school. Leaving us with extra credit. In your case, a lot of extra credit.”
“What kind of extra credit?”
“My car needs new break pads, for starters.”
“Oh. Oh, I know nothing about—”
He looks at me sharply. “I’m kidding, Arlo. I will come up with some research papers you can do. You’re also going to have to pass the final, which is not going to be a breeze. You’ll need some extra tutoring. I’ll fix something up.”
Or I could just quit. Which would destroy my parents once and for all, and who really wants to see what that looks like at this stage? It might be nice if I could at least provide them one high school graduate son. At least that.
“All right, Mr. Fisk. Whatever it takes. But you mind my asking, how come you’re going out of your way to help me? After I let it happen in the first place and everything?”
“What, you think you’re special or something? I do this all the time. If I had a real title, one that reflected my true calling around here, it would be something like Vice President in Charge of Walking Wounded.”
It is funny. I laugh. I don’t like it.
I rise from my chair, nod, and shake his hand.
“I’m not wounded, sir,” I say, and I look him in the eye in a full-on way I only now realize I was not doing before. In his expression I see he notices. He keeps shaking my hand, very firmly, refusing to release until he’s done talking.
“I played football in high school,” he says. “Varsity all four years. I was exceptional. Defensive end. Till I shattered my thigh bone midseason senior year. I mean shattered. I’m pretty much cyborg down there now. That was the end. Shut me right down, stopped me right in my tracks. Miss it still. Missed out on a lot, I feel.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, gently easing out of the shake. “Really sorry, sir.”
“Still be playing today, I figure. Probably playing for the Dolphins. . . .”
I’m walking to the door now.
“I will look for the hat, for cryin’ out loud.”
I reach the door, open it, and hear, “Do you ever feel like you were ripped off, Arlo? That I should have cleared you, let you be the star you were supposed to be?”
I don’t look at him. “Just moved on,” I say. “World keeps moving, Mr. Fisk.”
“And so it does,” he says. “How’s the head?”
“Head’s fine. See you tomorrow.” I exit rapidly before he can see I’m misting up and I cannot get it under control.
Impervious
Thing is, you’re a fighter if you feel like you’re a fighter. Even if you have a reason or reasons not to fight, that just makes you a fighter who doesn’t fight. Which would be a very hard thing to be.
I am nearing the end of a routine workout before heading off to school. I haven’t even done enough to require a shower, so I’m using that extra time to have some fun showing off my balance and technique on the speed bag.
What a thing, the speed bag, bubbada-bubbada-bubbada-bubbada, the way it tells you loudly and instantly whether you are getting it right or wrong, and wrong is humiliating and right is this, bubbada-bubbada-bubbada-bubbada. Light as a cloud, up on the toes, right foot, left foot
, right foot, left.
“You got it, boy,” I hear just before taking a light thump from behind in my left side ribs.
“Har,” I say, pulling my elbows in quick, turning and backpedaling.
It’s Jason, a light heavyweight banger of anyone’s-guess age who works out every day. An old school pug, Jason is just happy to get in and exchange punches with anyone.
“Thanks, man,” I say, and the two of us do a bit of shadow-dance sparring, short-arm punching, blocking, ducking, faking.
“Why don’t you come on up in the ring and learn something?” He catches me with a playful slap on my left cheek.
“Or teach you something,” I say. I attempt the same slap, which he catches and holds on to and then slaps me again.
I have light training gloves on, but Jason has his hands lightly taped, so he’s preparing to spar with somebody, regardless.
“Ha,” he says, “let’s go then.”
“Can’t,” I say as our session gets a little feistier. “Not quite ready yet for that. And I have to get to school.” I snap a light flick-jab that catches him on the chin. My heart jumps with the thrill of it.
“Well, that’s what I’m sayin’,” he says. “I’m offerin’ to take you to school myself.”
“Ha!” I say, and the instant I say it he proves good to his word. He catches me right in the mouth with a crisp untouchable pop that would have done me great damage if he had thrown it with full bad intentions.
“Hey, hey, sorry, man,” Jason says, walking up close and grabbing my shoulders as he takes a good look.
“Nah, man, Jason, it’s nothing at all,” I say, looking at the blood painting the palm of my glove. “I didn’t even feel it.”
And I didn’t. There was no pain to it at all, and if anything, it made me kind of excited to do it all over again, take another shot in the mouth right now just to have it happen, to be in that moment once more.
My tongue feels around, pushing at an eye tooth that is a little bit wiggly, running over a top lip that has a little bit of a split and a lot of swelling already.
“Took me to school, Jason,” I say when he retrieves a cold cloth for me.
